


And You Give Yourself Away

by endgirl



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Agiels, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endgirl/pseuds/endgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after defeating the Keeper, Cara finds that as much as her world has changed, one thing remains the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Give Yourself Away

**Author's Note:**

> General Mord-Sith warnings apply here. Mentions of past violence, torture, dubcon, and unequal power relationships. In the present: rough sex, mild D/s, use of Agiels.

You want to be surprised. You want to be shocked to see her here, alive. Instead, when you open the heavy wooden door of your chambers and find Denna on the other side, your first thought is to wonder what has taken her so long. Somewhere deep inside -- beneath your modified leathers and the feelings you contracted from Richard and Kahlan -- you have always known she would come for you.

It’s been six months since you joined the Lord Rahl and his bride at the People’s Palace. Almost a year since the three of you defeated the Keeper and rode into the sunset. And it’s been four hundred and thirty-nine days since you put an arrow through your former Mistress’s back and watched her tumble over a cliff’s edge.

Her chilling blue eyes tell you she hasn’t forgotten.

In the heartbeat it takes you to reach for your Agiel, Denna’s gloved hand shoots out to grasp your wrist. But her grip on your skin is not bruising, like it should be, and she does not attempt to disarm you.

Something is wrong.

She pushes past you into your dungeon rooms, and you realize that her perfect posture at the door was only a facade. Denna is limping, and splatters of dried blood blend with her red leather.

As you watch her move, you want to be pleased that she is in pain. This is the woman who tormented you every day you lived in her temple. The one who, when she discovered your infatuation, banished Dahlia to a squad of Mord-Sith deep in the southern mountains. The one who forced you to kneel at her feet.

But as she sinks into the simple wooden chair you keep in the corner, closing her eyes, an unwelcome pang of distress ruins your malicious delight. For Denna is also the woman who kissed away your tears. Who saw your potential and cultivated it, no matter the cost. Who _allowed_ you to kneel at her feet.

More than Mistress Nathair or your childhood trainers, more than Richard and Kahlan and their gentle suggestions -- this is the woman who made you who you are.

As you examine her in the chair with her head reclined against the wood, her limbs perfectly still, you consider leaving the door propped open before approaching her. You may be the bravest of your sisters -- and you certainly are, you think to yourself with smallest hint of a smirk -- but you are not needlessly reckless. You remember what it was like the last time you were truly alone with Denna. You still have the scars.

After a moment's pause, you roll your eyes at yourself and pull the door closed. There is no reason to be concerned. You are no longer a twenty-year-old novice held in the unrelenting grasp of her superiors. And the woman before you is no longer Mistress Denna, right hand of the Lord Rahl. The most fearsome of the Mord-Sith.

She’s just Denna.

You, on the other hand, are Richard’s favorite. The beloved confidante of the Mother Confessor. The second in command after the Lord Rahl, in the Palace and beyond. Any one of the dozens of Mord-Sith in the adjacent rooms would bow before you, ready to do your bidding at the first indication. Today, you hold the power.

You repeat this mantra to yourself as you cross the room, one hand poised over an Agiel. It is not for self-defense so much as self-preservation. You graze your fingertips over your weapon and breathe in the pain to stop yourself from drowning in the familiar scent of your Mistress -- the warm leather, the sweat, the cloying curl of her braid.

With a thick swallow, you are unwillingly reminded of what it was like at the end of that last night together. The way you came harder than you ever had before. You dig you nails into the leather of your Agiel.

When you reach her, her fingertips are pressed against her temple. You resist a fierce, instinctual urge to sink to the stone in front of the chair. ( _Harder than you ever have since_ , your mind hums traitorously.) Instead, you stand with your hip jutting to one side and a bored look on your face. It’s a position that might have earned you an hour in the training room once upon a time, and it gives you a jolt of peevish satisfaction to assume it now.

“Do you know what else never seems to die?” you say.

A smile ghosts over Denna’s pale face. “What, Cara?”

Denna’s words carry none of their usual taunting sting, and they come out as little more than a whisper. As soon as she speaks, you forget what fearsome creature you planned to name. All at once you notice what you were too distracted to see before -- her shallow, beleaguered breaths and the way her eyelids flutter as if it is too difficult to keep them open. She is not only in pain. She’s dying.

Denna beckons you closer with the twitch of one hand, as if she knows your attention has shifted from mocking her with riddles to evaluating her injuries. Your stomach flips as you realize she can still read you like a book, even with her eyes closed.

“Undress me,” she says.

You consider disobeying the hushed order. Judging by the pallor of her skin, you could turn around and march out the same way she entered, say nothing to anyone, and before the sun set she would be dead. It would be no worse a fate than she deserves -- it would be a kindness, really, to let her go so peacefully after all the distress she has caused your Lord Rahl.

But you hesitate.

A weaker woman might perish by sunset, but not Denna. She would find a way to survive. Someone else in the People’s Palace would help her -- a guard, perhaps, or another Mord-Sith. The thought of one of your sisters standing here instead of you, in the place _you_ earned, makes your jaw flex in irritation. You attempt to stamp down this feeling, but even the hiss of your Agiels against your palms will not dispel it. It’s the phantom of the rage and desperation you used to feel when Denna would lead another Mord-Sith past your door on the way to her bed, smirking at you all the while.

With a snarl, you reach for the laces on Denna’s neck guard. She came to you, not one of your sisters. She will live or die by your hand, you decide, and yours alone.

You remove her uniform piece by piece with no gentleness to your touch, baring her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders. You loosen the laces along her arms and peel the front of the leather away. Her breasts are slowly revealed as you tug the skin-tight material from her unresisting body. You lick your lips when her nipples pop free, and the smirk on her ashen lips tells you your reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed.

When the leather reaches her waist, though, your gaze falls to the massive gash that crosses her abdomen. Whatever rogue she met in battle was crude and unskilled, but deadly all the same. A sickly mixture of old and new blood has coagulated into a blackened mess that stains her skin and the inside of her uniform. The jagged edges of the wound have begun to fester. Barbed red lines twist beneath the skin, stretching their fatal tendrils towards Denna’s heart.

You choke down the bile that rises involuntarily in your throat. It’s not as if you haven’t seen damage like this before. You have _inflicted_ damage like this before, more times than you can count, and often with great enjoyment. The muscles in your stomach contract in revulsion not at the wound, but at the person it belongs to.

Only twice before have you seen Denna in a state like this. Both instances were the work of Darken Rahl, and both left unsettling impressions on your young mind. Back then, the sight of her in such pain was almost intolerable. It was so backwards, so _wrong_ , to see her vulnerable and broken. The first time, after you watched your bruised and bleeding Mistress stumble through the corridor toward her quarters, you vomited in the chamber pot in your room and forced the sister who witnessed it to swear her secrecy on pain of permanent death. The second time, when Denna was unable to walk, you cried silent, furious tears in a forgotten corner of the temple; it was the first time you had cried since your final breaking. That night, the unlucky Mord-Sith who spotted you met her end on your Agiel before she ever had a chance to keep your secret.

You thought you had outgrown this ridiculous weakness long ago. You thought you had stamped it out of yourself after Darken Rahl selected you for his personal service and you became Mistress Cara in your own right. Your churning insides suggest otherwise. You may have been able to shoot Denna with an arrow -- she was merely a distant target threatening your companions, a woman in a silly dress with her back turned so you couldn’t see her face -- but up close everything is different.

Forcing your eyes away from the wound, you continue working the leather from Denna’s body. It’s a routine you know well, one you could complete in your sleep. But tonight you are clumsy and slow. Your hands shake with feelings that you struggle to repress. Confusion, hunger. But mostly anger.

The problem is, Denna isn’t the object of your outrage. You are. Despite the many seasons that have passed, despite all you have accomplished, you are still a jumbled mess in this woman’s presence. You still want to pledge your everlasting devotion to her, even as you long to crush your Agiel into her heart.

To keep your hands moving, to keep your conflicted thoughts at bay, you methodically recall each of the terrible things Denna used to do to you. The never-ending pain of her Agiel, and the way she made you ache for its caress even as you shrank from it. The cruel, throbbing pleasure that she would draw out for days, refusing to let you find release until you begged her for it, and sometimes not even then. The way she would chain you up in her chambers and force you to watch as she pleasured herself and others, over and over again, until you screamed for pain, for torture -- anything she would give, as long as she touched you.

By the time you pull the last piece of leather from her bruised leg and stretch back up to your full height, you have ruthlessly suppressed the confusing feelings that Denna’s arrival inspired. You are left with only your fury, and your vision clouds with a red haze.

You grit your teeth and position your Agiel over Denna’s heart. You could kill her right now. You could press down and end her life, and it would all be over. She would not be able to fight you.

But she seems to disagree, for she reaches up and covers the hand that holds your Agiel with her own. Her fingers are cold and on your skin. You stiffen your arm, prepared to press the weapon forward the moment she tries to resist. But Denna doesn’t push you away. She adjusts your angle and pulls you closer.

“Like this,” she says. “It will be more painful.”

Her gruff words pierce a startling hole in your haze. You stare down at her, stunned. The fog of rage begins to slip away, try as you might to hold onto it.

It takes you several seconds to realize what is happening, to comprehend what Denna is offering. To _let you kill her_. Perhaps, you realize with a sharp exhale, she came here specifically for that reason, instead of succumbing to her injuries alone on a distant battlefield. To let you be the one to end it.

Your former Mistress saw the revenge in your eyes, saw your power, and she welcomed death.

Somehow, it’s enough.

With a savage growl, you knock Denna’s hand from yours and bring your Agiel down against her flesh. You land not on her heart, but on her wound.

Her eyes snap open in surprise; her lips form a perfect circle of agony. Flesh sizzles beneath your touch, and black webs make her stomach muscles jump and flex as the magic eats away the poison in her veins.

You are not ready to end it. To end her. For all of this to be over.

Denna begins to lose consciousness from the pain, and you feel another measure of anger escape your grip. Against your will, your mind whispers to you of the memories you omitted while you were attempting to cloak yourself in fury. Memories of the way Denna would murmur in your ear when the pain was over, telling you that you were the best, the strongest, her favorite. Memories of the nights you spent in her bed, just sleeping, because she made flimsy excuses about being too tired to train you, and the way her legs always seemed to tangle with your own. Memories of the look on her face the night Darken Rahl announced he would be taking you away.

Just before Denna faints, you pull your Agiel away from her stomach. The damaged skin beneath it is pink and tender, but whole.

Only when you sheath your weapon and raise your hand to wipe your brow do you realize your face is wet with more than perspiration. You swipe roughly at your cheeks and thank the spirits that Denna’s eyes are still closed.

When she opens them again, long minutes later, and pins you with her stare, an involuntary shudder runs down your spine. Thanks to your attentions, the weak and injured woman who entered your chambers is gone.

Denna licks her lips experimentally, tasting her new-found health. Her cheeks gradually regain their color as she tilts her head from side to side. Scrapes and bruises still blemish her limbs, but these are of no consequence to Mord-Sith. She twists one wrist, and then the other. Leisurely, she rises from the chair and flattens her palms against her abdomen. She traces her bare fingertips along the phantom shape of the wound you just repaired. Never do her eyes leave yours.

“You continue to surprise me, Cara,” she says. Her voice caresses you in all the places it always has, and your leathers suddenly feel too hot and too tight. This is the Denna you remember.

But there is something else, now, too. Something unfamiliar in her eyes as she looks you up and down. It takes you a moment to find the word, because it is not a concept you have ever associated with your former Mistress.

It’s uncertainty.

For the first time you can recall, Denna looks unsure. She takes a poised step toward you in all her naked glory, but she hesitates when the two of you are face to face, close enough to feel each other’s breath in the air.

For an instant, you think she is going to kiss you. In the next, you are sure she is about to strike. Instead, she flexes her jaw.

“Why?” It is clear she intends her question as a demand. An accusation. But her voice is too small.

You peer into Denna’s face, and you know the question is genuine; she truly wants to understand. But you are Mord-Sith. You don’t have the words to speak aloud why you chose not to kill her. Why you are not ready for this to be over. You aren’t sure there are enough words in your language to explain it.

So you answer her in the only way you know how.

Your knees land softly on the stone floor. The once-familiar movement feels oddly right, and it makes desires that you locked away long ago throb low in your gut.

Her breath catches as she stares at you. Muscles twitch on the fronts of her thighs, which are right in front of your face, and her eyes widen as she understands what you are telling her.

 _I am still yours._

But you refuse to drop your gaze to her feet, as a pet would. You simply arch one eyebrow in challenge. She understands that, too.

 _I am still myself._

Denna has never shied away from a challenge, and she doesn’t disappoint you now. She lunges for you with practiced precision, tangling her fingers in your unbraided hair. She snaps your head back so that your neck aches as she forces her tongue into your mouth, claiming you.

There is no master waiting to punish you if you push her away and leave. No sisters who would wear his wrath as their own and shun you until you redeemed yourself. Still, you open your lips wider for her. For the first time, there is nothing to keep you here, except for the heady taste of her skin on your tongue.

Perhaps that is exactly the reason why you offer only cursory resistance as Denna drags you to your feet and shoves you backwards across the floor, one hand in your hair, until your shoulders collide with the cold wall beside your bed.

Denna has always taken from you -- even when she gave you pain and pleasure beyond your comprehension, you always thought of it as _taking_. And she could never take enough. But now, as she presses her thigh roughly between your legs, knocking your feet farther apart, you can see in her eyes that she understands this is different. This is you giving.

Her other hand comes up to caress your throat, and just as you begin to relax into the sensation, her fingers tighten like a vice. She leans forward to whisper against the shell of your ear.

“You have forgotten your manners,” she says. Her voice cuts off abruptly at the last word, as if she planned to say something else but decided against it. You know what it was. _Pet_.

You are glad she knows the name no longer fits. And yet, her unspoken acknowledgement of your freedom only intensifies your desire to play this part again -- to return to a time when your world was simple, and your only responsibility was to please her.

You lick your lips as your eyes fall to her collarbone. “I’m sorry.” _Mistress_. But you bite your tongue.

Denna smirks. “Mmm.”

You lose your leathers faster than you thought possible, suppressing a shiver as your skin is exposed to the dungeon air. They are easier to remove, you suppose, without the neck guard and the corset. Or perhaps Denna is just as hungry for this as you are.

Now that you are bared to her, the frenzied touches you enjoyed moments ago come to an abrupt end. Denna’s leg is gone from between your thighs, and she holds her body inches from your own, close enough for you to feel her warmth but too far to maintain contact. You long to arch your back away from the wall and into her skin, but her hand rests in warning at the base of your neck. Besides, you know better than to test the limits of her leniency.

She stays this way for so long, just watching you, that your fists itch to clench in agitation. To actually move would be an unacceptable display of your desire, but remaining still becomes impossible. Each lazy caress of her blue eyes over your body makes heat swell between your legs. You don’t care if it’s her hand or her Agiel that touches you -- both feature prominently in your darkest dreams.

This ability to prolong to inevitable, to turn anticipation into insanity, is what made Denna a legend. It’s what separates simple skill with an Agiel from true mastery of pain. You respect her talents, except when they are turned on you. You remember the days on end you have spent waiting for her, attempting to conquer your need for her touch, and you nearly growl in frustration at the thought of experiencing that madness again.

You are about to reach for her, heedless of the consequences, when she finally, finally ghosts the tip of her Agiel along your inner arm. You exhale in a rush of relief.

“Have you forgotten how to wait, too, Cara?” she says at your sigh, pulling the Agiel away. She sounds almost curious, and inside you flinch. Denna’s gentle inquiries are always more dangerous than her outbursts.

You press down the retort that rises automatically to your lips. She is trying to bait you, and you will not give her the satisfaction of an improper reaction. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as a respectful “No, Denna,” leaves your tongue, and you force your muscles relax to show her how patient you still are.

But as Denna resumes her movements, apparently placated by your response, the gratification that floods you from head to toe has little to do with successfully resisting her bait, and everything to do with the approving way she murmurs as she paints webs of pain across your skin. Your throat constricts as you realize what your body is telling you, has been trying to tell you all along.

Even after all this time, you still want Denna to be proud.

Your eyes squeeze shut as her Agiel passes over the soft skin beneath your breast. It isn’t the pain that makes you wince, but the feelings. You are feeling too much, too strongly, and in ways you should not about your former Mistress.

You raise your arms above your head and hold your wrists to the wall, hoping that Denna will overlook your infraction of closing your eyes. It’s one of the most difficult positions she used to force you to hold -- keeping yourself upright and your hands to yourself, without the assistance of shackles or chains. Even now, assuming it makes your muscles quake in anticipation. A wave of heat rolls from your hands down to the apex of your thighs.

“Cara,” she hisses. Her Agiel trembles against your side, just for a moment, and you know she appreciates your display.

When you open your eyes, her chest is flushed. Her breasts rise and fall as if she is concentrating very hard on breathing, and her knuckles are white on the hand that holds her weapon.

Before you can take another breath, Denna slams her body into yours. Her free hand reaches up to grasp your joined wrists, and the Agiel is crushed flat against your lower stomach, pinned there by her own torso. Your lips part in a silent gasp as the agony burns through your skin and hers, uniting the two of you in pain -- and causing fresh wetness to pool between your legs. You don’t have long to enjoy the sensation, because Denna yanks you away from the wall and pushes you down toward the floor, catching your mouth in a savage kiss that leaves blood on your lips.

Your ass hits the stone first, then your shoulders, and you know there will be bruises tomorrow. You don’t care. She pins your hands above your head and hovers over you, her legs straddling your hips. You can feel the damp heat pulsing in her sex, and you almost pull your hands away and dip your fingers into her wetness. Almost.

“Denna,” you say instead, flexing your hands under her grip.

She raises one eyebrow, pausing in her onslaught, and her lips curl up in amusement. “Yes?”

You groan. You have survived Darken Rahl, and dark magic, and feelings, and pregnant night wisps. And in the end, after everything, it will be this woman who is the death of you.

Instead of punishing you for your nonverbal response, as she once would have, Denna lets her Agiel fall to the golden chain around her wrist. She moves down your body, whispering her mouth and her free hand over all the places you yearn to feel them. She never gets close enough to give you what you really want.

Perhaps, you realize with a helpless stretch of your fingers, she is punishing you after all.

When she reaches your thighs, she shoves them roughly apart and moves to kneel between them. She drops her weight onto your lower body until her sex is pressed against yours, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

Her flesh is slick as she grinds against you. You’re not sure if its her wetness or your own that makes your bodies slide together; it doesn’t matter. Her mouth is everywhere, peppering your neck and chest with kisses and bites.

Every thrust sends tremors of hot need through your center until you’re gasping beneath her, attempting to shift your hips to change the angle, to make the pressure hit just _there_. But Denna knows all too well what you crave, and exactly how to deny you. Her smile is devilish as she holds your hips down and continues moving exactly how she chooses, using your body for her pleasure.

That thought alone makes a moan escape your throat. The scent of her arousal is thick in the air, and you force yourself to remain still, to let her set the pace, though you know she is purposely torturing you. By the time she comes, her brow tight and her lips parted above you, you are panting with desperate urgency. The stone beneath your back is slippery with sweat, and you are so close to coming undone that your body shudders at each carefully measured grind of her hips.

“Denna,” you say again, and it comes out more like a feverish whine than the order you had envisioned.

She sighs in the afterglow of her climax, still moving maddeningly against you. “Yes?” she says lazily, just like she did before. You realize she is waiting for something.

 _Please_ comes instantly to your lips, but you choke the word off before it can find a voice. You should have known she would want you to beg for it. That asking her permission to come would not be a rule Denna was willing to disregard. You ball your hands into defiant fists, even as your hips buck under her weight, starving for more contact.

She releases your wrists, which she has been crushing against the stone above your head, and snakes her newly freed hand between your bodies. She slides her fingers along your swollen lips, painfully slowly, and you can’t help but cry out as her fingertips dip into your wetness. When she finds the aching center of your desire, your cry becomes a shout.

“Please!” You bite down hard on your tongue to punish it for allowing the request to escape. And to keep yourself sane as Denna circles your clit lightly with her thumb.

“Please what?” she murmurs.

You grunt in response, and she pushes one mocking finger into your sex. It’s nowhere near enough.

“Please what, Cara?” she says again.

You throw your head back against the floor as the familiar words rush out. “Please let me come for you.”

The second the plea leaves your lips, you expect to despise yourself for your weakness. Instead, the words feel natural -- almost freeing -- and the only sensation you feel is pleasure as Denna moves above you. The look of triumphant satisfaction on her face nearly makes you want to say it again.

She doesn’t give you the chance. Denna growls her permission, and all at once she has three fingers inside of you, grinding her palm against your sex. You try to wait, but the hand in your body and the voice in your ear are too much. You climax with a shout and a hard jerk of your hips against the stone.

Immediately, you know it isn’t enough. Even as your breathing calms and your muscles clench around Denna’s fingers, you know this will not stem the tide that has been growing inside you since your former Mistress knocked on your door.

Pleasure alone has never been what you needed.

There is no greater human experience, Denna always says, than when pain takes pleasure to its zenith. And there is no greater pain than what Denna can give.

You pull away from her fingers, which feel suddenly strange inside of you -- too warm and much too soft. As they slip from your body, you can feel how wet you still are, how much you still yearn for her. And from the ravenous look on her face, she isn’t finished either.

You know she could punish you for moving without permission, but you don’t hesitate. Rolling onto your stomach, you push yourself up onto your hands and knees. She barely has time to react before your sex is on view before her.

The risk becomes well worth the reward when you glance over your shoulder and see the look of awe on Denna’s face. She moves toward you, but it’s only her hips that push against your backside. You press back into her, asking for more.

“Cara,” she groans. It’s as much a warning as a promise.

You know she is not asking your permission. You hiss “Yes” all the same.

She pulls away, just slightly, and the pressure of her body against your skin is replaced by the hum of her Agiel. Your head falls forward with a sigh of wanting. Tracing the weapon’s tip along familiar curves, she moves it from the juncture of your knee, up the back of your thigh, over the curve of your cheeks. But as with her earlier teasing of a different sort, the pain is just enough to make you squirm. No more. Not enough.

When you push back against her, she pulls away the same amount. You can imagine the wicked grin on her face. How much she is delighting in your desperation, just as she always has. When her Agiel brushes over your curls, sending tremors of pain into your skin, your toes curl.

“Please,” you say. It leaves your lips without a second thought. “Please, Denna.”

She goes on teasing you for an eternity. Grazing her weapon over your most sensitive areas, but never where you need it. Whispering to you all the things she could do to you with her Agiel but won’t. All the ways she could make you shriek. Running her other hand around your hip and between your legs, she moves her fingers and her Agiel in tandem, taunting you. You beg for her touch in every way you can think of, and still she does not relent.

You don’t know what else she could possibly want from you. Blinking away tears of frustration, you realize this delicious torment is all she’s going to let you have. The sense of loss is overwhelming alongside your dizzying arousal, and you drop down onto your forearms. You rest your head against the cool stone in the hope it will bring relief. It doesn’t.

“Mistress,” you whimper in defeat.

Instantly, Denna’s Agiel is inside you to the hilt.

At first, there is nothing. Time seems to slow, and you hear your own heartbeat as if through a fog.

And then there is pain. You rise up on your hands as if pulled by a string, throwing your head back as a scream rips from your throat. The agony courses through you from the inside out, as if it were made just for you inside Denna’s very soul.

It mixes with your wetness, with the ache Denna has already created, and soon the sounds that come from your lips ring of more than just pain.

She pulls the Agiel until it is nearly free, then drives it back into your sex. You take everything it has to offer and more, every ounce of pain and pleasure it can give. Denna taught you how to do this, and you have never been more grateful than in this moment.

You can hear her panting behind you. Though it’s all you can do to stay upright on your hands and knees, you turn your head back to watch her as she fucks you. Denna’s arm is covered in spidery tangles of magic that she seems to will up her arm, reveling in the pain. Her eyes are hooded and dark and trained on your face.

The sight of her watching you is more than you can handle, and you thrust back into her Agiel. She starts to move faster, harder. You attempt to hold on, to make it last. But then she is leaning over you, blanketing your slick skin with her own as you cry out. She is whispering in your ear, telling you to let go, chanting _good girl_ like a prayer to the Creator you know she doesn’t believe in. And when she finally tells you to do it _for her_ , you shatter into a hundred screams.

All too soon, the Agiel is gone. You are left with a strange feeling of emptiness, and an even stranger sense of warmth. As you fight to pull in air, Denna’s hands are all over you, scratching and stroking. She’s putting you back together; she must be, because when you open your eyes seconds later, pressed flat on the stone floor, your arms and legs having given out, you are whole again.

Whole, but not quite the same. You stumble as she pulls you to your feet, and you are thankful that you only have to remain upright for a moment before she pushes you back down onto the thick furs that cover your bed. She stands over you with one eyebrow raised, the glistening Agiel in her fist.

You know what she wants. Without a word, you rise up on one elbow and take the wet rod into your mouth. The pain is nothing compared to what you just experienced; it’s the familiarity of the act that makes you burn. You close your practiced lips around the weapon, sucking your wetness from it as Denna watches.

She eyes you with piercing interest, and you can almost smell her arousal blossom all over again. The look on her face is downright lewd as she pulls the Agiel from your mouth and wipes roughly at your bottom lip with her thumb.

Mercifully, she resits the sinister desires you know are forming in her mind, and simply sheaths her weapon. She shoves you over without fuss and climbs onto the bed.

There is no touching, no tender words of comfort or romance. You are glad; neither of you were built for such nonsense. You can feel Denna beside you, and that is enough.

Her recently healed wound and the journey she must have taken to reach you seem to finally take their toll. Her breathing softens from the fervor of sex to the even tempo of sleep, until you can hardly hear her at all.

You must drift off as well. For when you open your eyes again, the candles and lamps that light your bedchamber are nearly spent. Denna has shifted in her sleep, and is sprawled on her back across your bed. The sight of her there is jarring, and the events of the evening rush back.

Flipping your hair away from your face, you sit up with a start. What time is it? The dungeon walls make it impossible to say for sure, but certainly hours have passed since Denna came to you. Could it even be the next morning? Have you missed your daily report with Richard and the First File? Breakfast with Kahlan?

No, surely not. Richard and Kahlan would have come looking for you. But there are still your other responsibilities to think of, so many reasons you should get up and leave. The Mord-Sith who await your command before leaving on patrol each night. The training schedule for the Dragon Corps.

You swing your legs silently over the edge of the bed, allowing your life at the People’s Palace to sweep over you and invade your mind. It’s easier than turning to look at your Mistress -- _at Denna_ , you correct yourself half-heartedly -- and remembering how she made you beg and scream.

The ache in your legs is harder to ignore as you rise, but you are not Mord-Sith for nothing. You make it to your discarded uniform without a sound. Pulling on your leathers, you concentrate on paying no attention to the woman across the room. Still, you find yourself glancing up every other second, listening for movement from your bed. For Denna to wake up and -- what, exactly? Kiss you? Ask you to stay? You grind your teeth in frustration with yourself, with the feelings you have somehow let surface. The ones you thought you had long ago learned to contain.

The sooner you leave these rooms and let Denna disappear into the night, the sooner your world will make sense again. You fasten your belt around your hips and slide your Agiels into their holsters. The pain is familiar and comforting, and it makes you brave enough to turn and look at her one last time. You let your eyes roam over her body in that lingering way she allows only in sleep.

Crouching down, you force your gaze away. You remind yourself of what you already know. That there is every reason to go, and only one to stay.

But as you tighten the worn laces of your boots, that reason rolls over in your bed and stretches out a pale arm.

“Come here, Cara,” she says. “Did you think I was finished with you?”

So you stay.


End file.
